Down and Out
by Razer Athane
Summary: He held onto it, because it was all he had left. -Oneshot-


Disclaimer: Nope, don't own Tekken.

Author's Note: What's this? A Paul Phoenix fic from Razer? Yeah. I wrote a Paul Phoenix fic and I dunno why. Came into my head not too long ago. Either way, it's nice to take a break from Hwoarang and the like. Is there anyone else you guys are interested in seeing me attempt? Please leave a suggestion ;3 I wanted to make this longer but ending it where I have just felt like the right place to close the story. Please, enjoy!

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><p><strong>DOWN AND OUT<strong>

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><p>'Foreclosed'.<p>

Paul stared at the large sticker across his dojo. He blinked a few times before realising the full implications of the situation – he'd have no more students. No more money. No place to practice and improve. He had poured his heart and soul into establishing that place, and now it'd been snatched from him simply because he had been unable to afford to meet this payment.

With a small growl, he fished out some coins from the pockets of his red gi and stormed to the nearest payphone, immediately dialling for his insurance company. He needed to sort this out as soon as possible.

Soon enough, a man picked up. They went through the usual proceedings – name, phone number and so on – and when the man asked what he could do for him, Paul growled, "I was told that I'd have an extension on my payment for my dojo! I want my dojo back!"

"There is nothing we can do," the man replied curtly, "We have given you enough opportunities and you continue to fail in meeting our requirements. Your dojo is now ours, as is everything inside of it."

He grit his teeth, "Just you wait, I'm gonna go to the government about this!"

A seemingly heartless laugh, "The government under the control of Jin Kazama and the Mishima Zaibatsu will not side with someone as yourself. It is his orders, Mr Phoenix… take all homes and dojos that were behind on payment so that they may be used for the housing and training of his soldiers. In the mean time, try and find a new job."

Paul, infuriated, slammed the phone back into the receiver. He glared at the plastic, feeling weak and lost – a feeling he was not accommodated to in the slightest. Gruffly sighing, he began to head back home to his tiny, unkempt apartment.

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><p>'Foreclosed'.<p>

"…What."

He stared. He merely stared.

So in addition to his _dojo _being taken from him, they took the roof from over his head? What about all of his stu – oh, wait, _never mind, _because the door opened and a man in a suit was talking out his things. Paul saw his oodles of bike magazines, his empty beer bottles, and his collector cars. He saw another man behind him picking up his photographs.

"Now wait just a damn minute!" Paul seethed, charging into the room. He ripped the photographs from the man's hands and glared, "These are mine and they're personal!" He lightly shoved the person, whose startled shout alerted the others in the room, "No one gave me warning on my dojo or my goddamn apartment!"

"We gave you plenty of warnings, Mr Phoenix," the man at the door stated. He adjusted the box in his arms, feeling the bike magazines slide from underneath his arm, "We asked you to pay. You didn't pay. Therefore, we will take everything you own in compensation, including your motorbike. This is of your own doing."

"Surely you have a heart?" Paul questioned, his fists shaking as he held the photos close to his form.

He paused and surveyed the room. What must've been trash to him would've been considered treasure to the other. Besides, quite a few of the items had been moved out already. He sighed, "You can take away a bagful. But that's all."

If he hadn't felt so angry and cheated, he would've been thankful. Snatching up the nearest backpack, Paul quickly set to work grabbing some clothes, money and anything else he considered important. Either way, he didn't think he could fit a lifetime of memories onto his back; the fact that they were making him choose wounded him further.

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><p>"Forrest…"<p>

"Mm?"

"I _tooold_ you not to let him in!" Marshall joked – but when he watched as his best friend gazed at him with a faraway, pained stare, he shifted his demeanour entirely, "Hey buddy, what's wrong? You look like you've seen death or something."

Paul sat down at the table and watched as Mrs Law busied herself around the kitchen. Forrest sat opposite him and intently listened to his friend's story, "I've had a really rough day. The government took my dojo. They took my house. They took my things – _this,_" he let the backpack slide to the floor with a heavy thud, "is all they let me take… I…"

_I have nowhere to go, _he realised, _I've got nothing._

He rested his head in his hands, "…I don't know what I'm gonna do."

Forrest spoke, "Man, that sucks! I can't believe the governments have become so cruel!"

Marshall rubbed his chin and leant back in his chair, "I'll tell you what, Paul. You can stay here for as long as you like – until you get back on your feet. We'll sort something out together. Maybe you can contact your students and tell 'em to head on down to my dojo, and you can train them there when I'm not training my own."

"Thank you," Paul merely said, "So much."

Marshall smiled and stood, waving him up to the guest room.

* * *

><p>Two months. That's how long it'd been since he lost everything.<p>

Paul found some of his students, but not all. Either way, they were either unable to afford him anymore – he may or may not have inconspicuously jacked up the prices – or did not care for him to teach them any longer. But he was a good teacher, wasn't he? A real tough but understanding one, an all round good guy. So why was this happening to him? He always tried hard.

He felt so… _useless._

He couldn't contribute adequately to the Law household, who'd graciously allowed him to stay. He couldn't afford to keep his own dojo, his apartment, his life together – he was a mess. A true mess, and it sickened him. Paul wondered where his old self went – the one back in the first tournament, where he was an icon and where he had no troubles at all and was never down and out in the fight. He missed that old self. A lot.

_But hey, _he said to himself, standing from the bed and walking to the window, where the lights of the night gazed up at him, _Everyone goes through ups and downs! This is just the way life is. Life sucks sometimes but you know it's great too! All you gotta do is remember… That's all you gotta do, Paul. Just remember those good times to get you through the nasty ones._

He was suddenly renewed, with a vigour he'd not felt since his younger days. He stood a little taller and watched the skyline flicker. He wasn't gonna be beaten by this. Fighting was not as important as his life – he wasn't gonna be beaten.

"_You are _the toughest fighter in the universe," he murmured.

The words inspired him.

"Yeah!" Paul threw a fist in the air, "Paul Phoenix, _you are _the _toughest _fighter in the universe!"

That would be his new mantra, then. The one to pick him up when he was down, the one to inspire him and make him work harder. The one that would get him through all of this darkness to emerge at the other side as the champion of the whole wide universe.

He held onto it, because it was all he had left.


End file.
